Negative
by Brookebynature
Summary: "I took a pregnancy test yesterday," she blurts out as he reaches for the coffee pot. Maybe she should say it more delicately, less harsh, less...whatever that just was, except she's been trying this soft approach to him, to them, whatever they are now and it's getting her absolutely nowhere. "It was negative." Linstead oneshot.


**A/N - I was just thinking about my latest oneshot (Lifeline) and the fact Erin and Jay made it back to each other was all well and good, but what if there hadn't been a sort-of timescale? And then this happened, and yeah it's short but it kind of just wrote itself.**

 **As a side note, I'm not neglecting D.L, and you can expect the next chapter tomorrow or maybe the day after.**

 **Hope you enjoy x**

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Negative

"I took a pregnancy test yesterday," she blurts out as he reaches for the coffee pot. Maybe she should say it more delicately, less harsh, less...whatever that just was, except she's been trying this soft approach to him, to _them_ , whatever _they_ are now and it's getting her absolutely fucking nowhere.

He snaps his head up, eyes wide and rimmed with red. Tiredness probably. That, and pain. So much pain Erin can see it's consuming him, staking a claim on his spine and shoulder blades so they're hunched all the time.

"It was negative." Her voice is so blunt. Dry.

Jay doesn't know what to say. She can tell from the way he opens his mouth, then closes it again, then sighs, leaning back against the counter like it's the only thing left in the world to prop him up. He can't bring himself to lean on her, Erin thinks, but a formica countertop will suffice, it seems.

"I...Erin...I don't know what to say." His voice is hoarse. Choked. Like he's using the last of what energy he has to grit out the words.

"Me neither," she shrugs. "Just...thought you should know, I guess."

She leaves the break room and sits back down at her desk. Jay doesn't follow.

They don't talk about it for the rest of the day. Not when she finishes some paperwork to take to Voight and has to brush past him on her way to his office. Not when they have to put their vests on to head out towards Brighton Park, nor when she takes the wheel of the Sierra and he sags onto the passenger seat without complaint.

 _I don't want to tiptoe around you at work_ , he'd said, like he meant it. Erin isn't sure it was a lie, or just a wish that's harder to maintain that he'd anticipated. Everything, it seems, is so much harder than they'd anticipated.

They go home (or rather, Erin goes home and he goes to Will's or Molly's or...somewhere that isn't _home_ ) and Erin cries. She hasn't cried since he left. Until now, obviously. It's sad at first - the kind of tears you cry because there's nobody to talk to about how completely broken you're feeling. And then they change. They grow hot and mad: angry tears - the ones you cry out of frustration and injustice. Finally though, she quietens - nothing else left. Nothing to give: not grief, not rage. Just acceptance, she supposes.

And so she showers, pulls on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that smells like her, and not like Jay, because that's enough for tonight, she thinks. Enough pity. Enough sadness. Just _enough_.

There's a knock at the door. Three, actually, in slow, tired succession. Through the hole, she watches him scrub a hand at his face, pulling his palm down over his eyelids and nose, dragging it over his lips to his chin and back up again as he waits for her to open it.

Sucking in a breath, Erin closes her eyes like maybe this is just her imagination toying with her. By the time she opens them again, she half expects him to no longer be there. But the pain sitting in her chest like a lead weight is too real to be just a dream (or a nightmare) she thinks. She presses her eye to the circular hole. He's still there.

Thing is, he could let himself in if he wanted. He has a set of keys - didn't leave them on the side the night he left - and so there's always a chance, she knows, that she could come home to him. Wake up to him. Go out for groceries, and come back to find him scrambling eggs or making French toast in the kitchen; watching the Cubs game and tipping his beer bottle back in that disarming way he does - the one she finds inexplicably unnervingly attractive.

She turns the lock and opens the door.

"Did you want it to be positive?" His words are stilted. Angular and staccato.

"I don't know."

Jay sighs, like it's the only thing he's capable of doing. "Did you want it to be negative?"

"No." There isn't even a pause. No thinking time. _No_. She hadn't wanted it to be negative. _Doesn't_ want it to be negative.

He stares at her, feet still in the hallway. Erin won't ask him to come inside. Won't do that to herself - make her vulnerable to an _I shouldn't_ or _I want to, but I can't_. But she does turn, leaves the door open and heads back into her living room so he can follow. _If he chooses_.

She sits on the couch and she won't look up, but she hears the door close and the soft thud of his boots being set down beneath the coats. The cushion next to her dips and she's overwhelmed by his smell, his breathing, his trembling fingers inching towards her and then pulling back at the last second like they've been burned.

"I've thought about it before," he chokes. "About having a baby with you. Two, actually."

She doesn't know why he's telling her this. Why he's making the whole thing worse in painting a picture of what they don't have. What they _won't_ have, she suspects. She wants him to stop talking. And yet, she doesn't want him to stop either, because she's a masochist, isn't she? Seeking out the pain, litting it singe and burn and scar.

"Thought about you on desk duty. Complaining. Not meaning it. Pretending not to be excited over Kim throwing you a baby shower."

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispers, tears fogging her vision, just when she thought she was done.

"Just wanted you to know it wasn't a feeling of relief," Jay says, turning his head to her. "When you said it was negative. I wasn't relieved."

A wave of something passes over her then. Nausea maybe. Heartbreak, probably.

"Maybe someday," she just about manages, not waiting for the _oh definitely_ that would have been the response once upon a time. She knows there isn't a _definitely_ now. Nothing is certain - just a series of maybes and possiblies and mights. Coulds. Never _wills_.

"I want it," Jay tells her. "With you."

And yet, they both know that want doesn't equate to getting.

"I want it too," she lets herself say.

They sit for a while. Longer than a while, maybe. Minutes or hours until her vision is blurry - and not just from the tears - and she's fighting the urge to close her eyes. If she does let herself succumb, Erin knows he won't be here when she wakes up.

"Can you just…" she trails off, backing out when Jay lets his eyes meet hers and she sees his own tears there. He adjusts his body, twisting and making the couch dip, and she's almost certain he's going to leave, the desperation for him _not to_ knocking all of the wind out of her lungs. But then his arms envelope her, sealing her body against his so she can hear the heavy thump of his heartbeat and feel his carefully measured breaths against her hair.

The gentle shake of his arms signal he's given in to the grief then. She lets her fingertips stroke the back of his neck in a steadying calm, loosening the muscles beneath his skin so he becomes heavy against her shoulder, but she prefers it that way: the weight of his body pressing against her so he's everywhere. So she can feel him. So she knows he's still here.

"It would've been a reason to stay," Jay murmurs against her hair, the vibrations pulsing all the way from her earlobe, down her neck to her fingers.

"I know."

She _does_ know. And maybe that's what makes it worse: the fact that there _isn't_ a reason. Or that he would need one at all.

"I don't want a reason to be here, Erin," he adds. "Other than I love you."

She knows that, really she does. She's just not sure it's enough.


End file.
